Not Words People
by D Veleniet
Summary: "You do realise I changed history just to save you, right? That I came back to you…like you asked." His penetrating stare carries the full brunt of his meaning, the desperate plea he had wrought from her hanging in the air between them: If you love me in any way, you'll come back... Post-Before the Flood.


**Author's Note:** Started this a while back because Peter and Jenna's body language in that last scene made my jaw drop; finished recently for a whouffaldi post-a-thon on tumblr. Many thanks to my awesome beta, V, for the insanely fast turnaround! : )

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing. All rights to the BBC and Steven Moffat.

* * *

"What will UNIT do with the ghosts?" Clara asks, aware that she is swinging her hips a bit more than usual as she backs up flush with the TARDIS console. But she can't help it – the Doctor has been… _looking_ at her ever since he came back. Looking at her like…

Oh. Like _that_.

He's advancing on her – she can hardly call it walking when it's so - _purposeful_. Determined, but with an edge and a tremble, as though he's in a fight with something that is demanding to be set free. The blaze in his eyes arrests her yet again, and she finds herself nervously licking her lips as he replies with something about space and fading away and other words that she doesn't catch because with the way his tone dips and his words slow it suddenly seems like he isn't talking about those things at all.

"Sorry - what?" she asks, her voice a bit breathier than she intended because _he's still looking at her._

One step, then another, then – he swoops down on her like he had at his Axe Battle, clutching at her like she is his only tether to survival. Her arms go immediately around his shoulders, stretching up as much as she can only to let out a yelp as her feet unexpectedly leave the ground and she is lifted onto the console.

"Sorry, too short," he rumbles into her ear.

She lets out a nervous laugh. "It's okay," she assures him, and it is and it isn't because there are new sensations that come with being chest-to-chest, with being pressed against him like this. Her shoes brush against the creases of his trousers, her knees instantly tensing closed at his proximity.

"Thank you," she finally says when he hasn't let go after a good ten seconds. "For finding a way. For coming back." She snaps her mouth shut before she can add the _to me_ because he's wrapped himself around her, and she can't be thinking about the ultimatum she issued him or which words it had contained with his breath tickling her neck.

His exhale is long and it warms her shoulder. "Thank you for waiting. 150 years later." And still, he doesn't let go.

"You were in suspended animation, though, right?" She lets a hand steal up to the back of his neck, her strokes tentative. "I mean – you didn't feel those years."

"Not as they happened, no. But I'm a Time Lord – we feel the passage of time, regardless," he replies, drawing out the last word.

"Oh." She understands, and she lets her hand become a little bolder, finding the back of his head. "So it feels like you haven't seen me for 150 years, then?"

"It feels like I haven't seen anyone for 150 years."

"Right." A jolt of guilt shoots through her at that, loosening her grip. But he holds tight, leaving her no choice. "Sounds lonely," she remarks quietly.

"I've lived through worse." And he finally pulls back, hands drifting up to cup her face. The blaze in his eyes has softened, warmed, but the intensity hasn't dimmed. He leans in and plants a long, firm kiss in the middle of her forehead, like he used to do. She closes her eyes at the intimacy of the gesture, her breath hitching as he rests his forehead against hers, as his breath streams over her nose and mouth, mingling with hers.

Had he planned it since he first arrived? Or was it one of those spur-of-the-moment things? Wherever it comes from, she doesn't know, but in the next moment, his lips are on hers, surprising a gasp out of her. It doesn't take her long to respond, her arms locking behind his neck, fingers relaxing into his hair. He sighs into her mouth as they weave into his curls, teasing and scrunching them, and she smiles against his lips as she pictures the bedhead he will have when she's done with him. His hands slide down her face and neck, falling to her shoulders, his fingers digging into them. A thrill ricochets through her when his lips part at last, and it's all she can do not to part her legs in response.

And just as suddenly as he starts the kiss – he ends it, pushing himself back from her so abruptly, she has to scramble not to lose her purchase on the slippery console. She slides down as gracefully as she can, tugging down her dress self-consciously as her feet hit the floor with a thud that echoes as much in her silenced mind as it does inside the console room.

Clara isn't sure she remembers how to form words.

The Doctor appears to be struggling, too. His forehead creases with a slight indentation and his mouth hangs open as he stumbles a step backwards. Like she had thrown herself at him and not the other way around. "I'm sorry," he finally says. "I don't know why I did that."

Of course not. Why would he when his very first words to her after 150 years were "don't kiss me?"

"Um." That seems to be the safest place to start, while she waits for her breathing to return to normal and her brain to catch up. "Because of Bennett? I mean – maybe it was 'cause of Bennett and what he said to Lunn."

"Right!" he agrees emphatically. _Far_ tooemphatically.

She waits, but he doesn't continue. "You don't remember, do you?"

"No, haven't a clue."

"It was about not waiting – how things happen and then…it's too late. So better to say what you need to now."

 _Or do it._ Her lips are still tingling, tiny aftershocks coursing through her. Her hands restlessly search for pockets to stuff themselves into.

"Ah." He's fidgety, too, turning from her before whirling back, his jacket flashing crimson as it swirls around him. "You do realise I changed history just to save you, right? That I came back to you…like you asked."

His penetrating stare carries the full brunt of his meaning, the desperate plea he had wrought from her hanging in the air between them.

 _If you love me in any way, you'll come back._

She nods, and finds she cannot quite meet his eyes. "Yeah – I do realise that. Of course I do."

"Well…" His fingers unfold helplessly, then curl in on themselves. Like they're clutching two brimming stacks of his human-interaction cards in each hand, offered up to her like phantom talismans of surrender: _here. I went through all of them, but none of them told me what I'm supposed to say. You can't blame me if I get it wrong._ "Would you have preferred I scrawled it in a banner across the sky?"

And just like that…he gets it right.

"No," she replies quietly, having to duck her head as her heart rate kicks up a few notches again.

"Good." His sigh sounds like one of relief as he moves back to the console. "Because honestly, I don't know where I'd find all that paper."

She chuckles, reveling at the break in tension as she follows him. "Oh, come on. I'm sure there's some planet out there that has a surplus."

"Of course there is. But even if I did travel to Planet Paper in the 369th century it'd be an _appalling_ waste of resources."

"Whoa, hang on – there's a Planet Paper?" She rests against the console. "Let me guess – it's a planet made entirely out of paper."

"No, it's a planet made out of trees that grow at an alarmingly fast rate. Their seasons last a couple of hours so you can imagine the leaf collection."

"Yeah," she answers distractedly, contemplating all the things he's not saying. "You know, um – I'd need it, too."

"Need what?"

She ventures closer. "If I had to scrawl it in a banner across the sky…I'd need just as much paper as you."

He flips a few switches, the ones she knows by now that don't do anything other than give him something to do. So she bravely reaches a hand out to cup his face, turning it towards her.

His eyes are glistening, and he blinks several times. "It's a good thing we're not doing that, then," he replies, his tone just shy of a murmur.

"Yeah." Her other hand joins the first, and her thumbs tenderly stroke his cheeks, her eyes shining up at him. "We're not really words people anyway."

His head trembles in her hands. "No."

She leans up on her tiptoes and kisses him softly, tenderly, just a few brushes of her lips against his. "So," she starts as she lands back down, her hands resting on his chest. "Do you think maybe you know why you kissed me now, Doctor?"

He hums low, his entire face scrunching, eyes squinting, brows drawn so low they look ready to fall off his face. Just when she thinks they can't go any lower, they suddenly shoot to the top of his forehead, eyes popping, his mouth pulling into his thinking grimace. He shakes his head. "No. I haven't the foggiest."

Her heart sinks. "Oh."

"150 years – cobwebs build up in the brain." He shakes a hand around his head to illustrate. "Takes a while to clean them out."

"Got it." She moves to extricate herself – and is surprised when his hands land at her waist, holding her there.

"So," he starts, his grip tightening on her. "You're _probably_ going to have to try again." He gives her a rueful _sorry-what-can-you-do-with-this-daft-old-man_ look, shoulders shrugging dramatically.

She doesn't miss the twinkle in his eye, however.

Clara hums, her hands sliding up his chest to lock behind his head. "Well, seems like I've got my work cut out for me, then."

"I'm afraid so."

"Yeah, and 150 years? How many tries do you think it'll take to get you sorted?"

"Ohh…" He blows air through his teeth. "Could take quite a few."

"Well, sounds like I'd better get started then, what do you think?"

"Clara?"

"Hmm?"

He lays a finger just shy of her lips. "No more words."

She can't help her huff of indignation. "Thought I was supposed to be the b –"

He doesn't let her finish.

* _Fin_ *


End file.
